


Cough medicine

by ginnyvos



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fic Exchange, Human Disaster Clint Barton, M/M, Mother Hen Bucky Barnes, Sickfic, Valentine's Day Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:33:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyvos/pseuds/ginnyvos
Summary: Bucky Barnes did not have a soulmate. Never had one. He had vague memories of writing on his skin and staring longingly at it, hoping an answer would appear the way he’d seen it happen  on his ma’s arm, whenever she wrote his dad a note. An answer never appeared.That was, until one day halfway through February.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 52
Kudos: 355
Collections: Winterhawk Valentine's Day 2020 Blind Date Exchange





	Cough medicine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pebblesinthelake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pebblesinthelake/gifts).



> For a change, this isn't the soulmate AU nobody asked for! :D
> 
> This was written for the winterhawk Valentine's Day 2020 Blind Date exchange, for my blind date: @thegrowingwordsmith on tumblr. They wanted a soulmate AU, if someone writes on their skin, it will also appear on their soulmates skin.
> 
> I really hope you like this interpretation of it! It's probably not exactly what you had in mind=, but I still really hope you like it!
> 
> @Tanouska, thank you SO much for the support, for calming down my panicked flailing, for the awesome and very last minute beta and for being just an amazing friend in general. You are awesome.

Bucky Barnes did not have a soulmate. Never had one. He had vague memories of writing on his skin and staring longingly at it, hoping an answer would appear the way he’d seen it happen on his ma’s arm, whenever she wrote his dad a note. An answer never appeared.

He had hazy memories of being drunk, very, very drunk, and admitting to Stevie that he thought it was because there was something wrong with him. Steve had tried to comfort him, because of course he had, tried to tell him that it didn’t mean he was any less loveable. Didn’t mean he couldn’t be just as happy. That there was nothing wrong with Bucky at all and he’d fight whoever said anything else.

Bucky remembered thinking that it was easy for Steve to say. Steve with those beautiful curly lines written on his skin, with his beautiful red-lipped spitfire and his blissed out smile whenever he so much as thought of her. He remembered thinking that he’d heard those platitudes a hundred times or more, even though he didn’t actually remember hearing them. He’d taken another drink and let Steve prattle on.

When he fell off that train, he remembered being relieved for the first time, because no writing had ever shown up on his skin and at least that meant he wasn’t leaving a soulmate with no one to turn to. Just Steve, and Steve had Peggy, so he’d be fine.

He understood why there had never been any writing on his skin but his own, now. He hadn’t been completely wrong, back then. Not completely right, either. There had probably been nothing wrong with Bucky… but there was definitely something wrong with the Winter Soldier. He was kind of relieved actually, because he really didn’t want to meet the person that made a good soulmate to… that.

That was, until one day halfway through February.

He’d been travelling around the world, hopping from Hydra base to Hydra base, avoiding Steve and SHIELD and leaving a path of desolation and destruction in his wake. He knew the punk meant well, that he didn’t want to lock Bucky up, would never play with his mind the way Hydra had, but… but. But Bucky couldn’t just… go in. Not the way he was now. Not with Hydra on the loose. Not with those words still in his head. Not while anyone that knew those words was still breathing air. He’d be a danger to Steve and to everyone else, and that wasn’t right. Better to keep going, keep hiding. Just another couple of bases until he was done. He was sure of it.

Bucky very distinctly remembered thinking that about 50 bases ago, too.

He was back in the US now, casing an old military base between New York and DC. It was kind of nerve-wracking, being so close to the Avenger’s bases, but he was fairly sure Stevie was still at his latest target in Sudan, along with Sam Wilson and the Black Widow, so he should be okay.

He was sitting in a tree, keeping an eye on the guards at the gate and those patrolling the grounds to get a sense of their schedule, when he felt something itchy on his flesh arm. He tried to swipe whatever bug it was away without taking his eyes off the guards, but it didn’t do anything. Scratching didn’t help either. The itch just moved further up his arm, like it was evading his hands.

Finally, he gave up and pulled away his sleeve to find whatever pest had found its way up there and… froze.

There was writing there. There was writing on his arm in what looked like sharpie and more was being added as he watched. The handwriting was neat, a list of instructions of some sort. He watched as the last words took form on his arm. 

> Inhaler ventolin 4x day DONT forget, really important Clint, srsly!  
> Antibiotics  
> Rest 5 weeks  
> dextromethorphan = cough meds 2x day  
> March 27 Medical 
> 
> DONT BE AN IDIOT AND CALL ME IF YOU NEED ME CLINT 917 710 5642 

He stared at it.

It didn’t disappear, but nothing else appeared either.

He covered the writing with his hand and pulled it back. It was still there. Stark black writing against his skin. There was no doubt about it.

His heart was racing and for some reason he was breathing hard. Someone had written on his skin. Well, not his skin. His soulmate’s skin. Oh fuck. He had a soulmate. An actual soulmate. His mind couldn’t even begin to grasp the concept. Oh fuck how-

His thought process stopped in its tracks when the itch returned. He stared as more writing appeared on his skin. Different writing. It was shaky, untidy and barely legible. There were splotches and a few times it looked like the writer stopped halfway through a word only to continue writing.

> Inhaler ventolin 4x day DONT forget, really important Clint, srsly!  
> Antibiotics 3x day  
> Rest 5 weeks **Yea rite no futzing way**  
>  ~~dextromethorphan = cough meds 2x day~~ **thats the shit that make me dizzy hell no  
> ** March 27 Medical  **put rmndr in phone get new phone first**
> 
> DONT BE AN IDIOT AND CALL ME IF YOU NEED ME CLINT 917 710 5642 

The writing stopped.

Bucky stared at the mess on his arm and somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice commented that he had apparently managed to have a soulmate who was even more of a disaster than Stevie had been.

He winced at that thought and pushed it to the back of his mind. He was _definitely_ not ready to unpack any of that right now. Or ever.

He didn’t know how long he sat in that tree, staring at his arm and trying desperately not to think any of the thoughts that came up. It must’ve been a while though, because when he did look up, the guard shifts had changed. He hadn’t even noticed.

Damn it.

He shoved down his sleeve and tried to pay attention, but it was a lost cause. The itching had stopped as soon as the sharpie had left his soulmate’s skin, but Bucky couldn’t seem to stop himself from touching it. Looking at it. Scratching it.

When he didn’t notice the movement of a guard across the open field around the compound until she was almost within touching distance of the outer fence, right by his hiding place, he was forced to give it up as a lost cause. He forced himself to stay completely still while she looked around suspiciously before moving on. When he was very sure no one was close, he slipped away.

~*~

Clint felt miserable.

He felt absolutely miserable.

The world sucked.

Not even Lucky cuddled up next to him on the couch or Dog Cops reruns on the tv made it any better.

He stared as officer Snuffles ran into a burning building and pulled someone out.

The dog was not coughing at all. Even officer Snuffles was better at being a futzing superhero than Clint Futzing Barton.

Clint was very tempted to just turn off the tv, but what else was he supposed to do? Katie Kate had installed him on the couch with blankets and pillows and enough meds to last him through the week, but he couldn’t even climb the futzing stairs up to his own bed without being out of breath. What was it the doc had said? ‘Heavy smoke inhalation on top of a severe cold is no laughing matter mister Barton, please take this seriously for a change!’ Right, like he was laughing at it…

He groaned. “Futzing smoke inhalation stupid-“ Even before he dissolved in a coughing fit, he didn’t think he was making a lot of sound. His voice was still all but gone. As it stood, he started hacking up a storm, managed to hit himself in the face with the cast around his right hand in a way that he was certain would leave a black eye later, and when he recoiled from that – still unable to stop coughing – he somehow swiped the pizza box from the end table so hard it flew halfway across the room… and landed upside down, leaving a trail of cheese, tomato sauce and some salami.

“Aw lungs…” he said as soon as he stopped coughing, because he was an idiot that never learned, and winced through another coughing fit.

It took him way too long to realise that Lucky’s sudden alertness wasn’t a reaction to his coughing fit. As a matter of fact, it took Lucky jumping off the couch and growling at something just out of Clint’s field of vision to actually jumpstart Clint’s muddled brain into some form of action.

He shot upright, tumbled off the couch in a tangle of blankets, inhalers, pillows and dignity, groped for the hearing aids he’d discarded on the coffee table earlier, forgot – again – that his hand was in a cast and thus not actually able to feel or grab anything, wiped both aids and bow off the table and out of reach – not that he could use his bow right now, anyway, but he always felt better with it close to him – and managed to actually grab a knife from under the couch with his good hand… all before he collapsed into another coughing fit. And nicked his cheek with the knife. Because of course.

If he was being 100% honest with himself, he didn’t actually expect to survive long enough for the coughing fit to end. Whoever the dark figure was that had just climbed in from the fire escape, everything about him screamed danger. The kind of danger that was either his best friend or an assassin. Well, his best friend was also an assassin, but Natasha wouldn’t assassinate Clint, not even after the stunt he’d pulled on this latest mission, probably, so she was different.

It was a bit of a surprise then, when he finally managed to stop coughing and untangled himself from the blankets, that he was still breathing. Okay breathing was a bit of an overstatement. Gasping for breath more like. But he couldn’t actually blame the Mr. Dark-And-Probably-An-Assassin for that, so.

The man had taken a step forward and reached out, but stopped short from actually touching Clint. If that was because of Clint or because Lucky had put himself firmly between Clint and Mr. Dark-And-Probably-An-Assassin-Maybe, Clint didn’t know.

Mr. Dark-And-Probably-An-Assassin-Maybe was staring at Clint like a deer in headlights, and it really wasn’t a very assassin-y expression.

Clint took a moment to try and control his breathing – lost cause but he could at least keep himself from having another coughing-fit until Mr. Dark-And-Possibly-An-Assassin-Maybe decided if he should kill Clint or not.

“Are you- are you okay?”

At least he spoke clearly enough for Clint to read his lips.

Clint wondered how he should answer that, actually managed to remember that talking wasn’t great right now and shrugged instead, trying to telegraph with his expression just how stupid that question was. Pulling a face reminded him that there was still a cut on his cheek and a knife in his hand. Right.

“Right I- Fuck. I don’t even- What am I even doing here? I- I brought… Stuff. Yes. From the list. And more, because you’re not using your cough medicine and honey and liquorice help at least a little and… Right. Bye.”

With that he tossed whatever he was holding in his other hand at Clint – Clint ducked, he was pretty stupid but he wasn’t _that_ stupid – and jumped back out of the window and right off the fire escape in a terrifying leap that even Steve would be proud of.

Clint dissolved into another coughing fit, because of course he did, but when that one cleared and he still hadn’t died, he got up to investigate the projectile.

It was a bag. From the pharmacy. Mr. Dark-And-Probably-Not-An-Assassin-At-This-Point had thrown a bag at him before fleeing. In it, Clint found cough medicine, a bottle of Gatorade, a jar of honey, a bag of something named honey liquorice, a jar of vicks vaporub and a little bottle of oil that, according to the label, should be added to steaming water before inhaling the steam to clear blocked sinuses. Also several packs of tissues and a pack of teabags.

That was… Weird.

Really weird.

Right?

Yeah, most definitely weird.

Clint’s brain was too futzing muddled for this shit.

He sat down on the couch, because at this point standing just seemed like more effort than he could expend, and stared at his hands while he tried to work through what just happened.

The list Kate had written on his arm three days ago – “Not even you can lose your arm Clint, so maybe this way you won’t forget!” – was starting to fade, barely visible. He still hadn’t put that reminder into his new phone. Hadn’t even unpacked the new phone. The bows, arrows and targets she’d drawn on the cast on his right hand were still very clear and he smiled at those. Kate was the best.

Right, maybe he should call Kate, let her know he had maybe possibly almost been assassinated. Or Nat. Was Nat back in the country yet? He had no idea. All those things kind of required him to walk over to the door though, where the package with his new phone still sat. He didn’t think he had the energy for that right now.

At first, he thought he’d fallen asleep and was dreaming things. He’d never really realised he was dreaming while it was happening though, except that one time with Allura and the fucking weird dream magic, and this didn’t feel like that.

He blinked, but that didn’t change anything. Someone was writing on his arm. They were writing in pen and he could see the letters forming, could feel where the tip of the pen was digging into his skin, only there was no pen and there was no one writing because Clint was alone. Unless they were invisible of course. He waved his hand above his arm to be sure, but there was no one there, invisible or otherwise, so that option was probably out.

It took an embarrassingly long time for his brain to catch up and inform him of the _other_ way someone who wasn’t there could be writing on his arm.

It didn’t actually make any of this make more sense.

> _Drink the tea with honey. It should help with your cough even if you’re not using the cough medicine. Which you should use. Put the salve on your chest and on your back if you can reach. Instructions for steaming are on the bottle._

For a while Clint thought ~~his soulmate~~ the mysterious invisible writer was done, but then more letters appeared. 

> _I’m sorry for scaring you. And hurting you. I didn’t mean to. I won’t bother you again._

Clint stared at the writing on his arm. That was… something. He didn’t know what, but something.

Because Clint Barton did not have a soulmate. He was very sure of that. Both Barney and his dad had reminded him of that often enough. He was meant to be alone forever. And despite them being wrong about a lot, so far they’d been right on that account. Clint’s string of three ex-wives were a clear testament.

And yet…

He stared at the words, written in clear blue pen next to the faded lines of Kate’s list and his own awful scrawl. He thought of Mr. Probably-Not-An-Assassin-At-All standing in his living room. Of the look he’d given Clint.

It took him the better part of half an hour to find anything to write with in the disaster zone that was his apartment. What he came up with was a purple gel-pen that he’d bought to write reports with, because (A) it would give the neurotic assholes in filing an aneurism if the reports weren’t written in blue or black pen and (B) purple was the BEST colour and if he was going to be stuck writing reports and filling out forms, at least he could have that one joy in his life. 

He took a deep breath and put the pen to his arm.

Writing with his off-hand was a pain, but it wasn’t as if he could write with his right hand while it was still in a cast. It took some manoeuvring to twist his arm in such a way that he could write under the message his Probably-Not-A-Soulmate-But-Whatever had left him, but above the cast, but he managed.

> **I wasnt scared just surprised**

Way to go Clint, that’s just such a futzing romantic thing to write to your Maybe Not A Soulmate That Brought You Medicine Possibly. 

> **Anyway tnx fr the stuff. Howd you know?**

It took a long time before there was an answer. Or maybe it just seemed that way to Clint. He wasn’t sure. 

> _I saw your list. Tracked down the phone number. Looked for any numbers that had contacted it registered to a Clint. Got an address._
> 
> **You couldve knocked you know**
> 
> _I did. You didn’t open the door. Heard you coughing. Came through the back instead. Sounded like you were dying… That’s one hell of a cold. Have you taken the medicine yet? Or the tea? Even if you don’t trust mine, you should take your own._

Clint stared at the neat script. That was… He didn’t even know where to begin. His soulmate knew how to get into the phone records. Also he’d jumped off a balcony that was several floors high with a flair that would make Captain futzing America proud. And he’d done all of it to make sure Clint took his cough medicine? What the futz. What the actual futz.

He went and took the pills the doctor had prescribed him anyway. 

> **Not a cold**

He started by writing. 

> **well not only a cold  
>  smoke inhalation from a collapsing building. It was also on fire. Thats why the smoke I was on top of the building when it collapsed. Not my fault.**

He didn’t know why he felt the need to clarify. Maybe so his Okay-Probably-Soulmate didn’t think he was a _complete_ pathetic idiot. Even though he was. 

> **you could come back yanno if you wanted anyway whats your name**

His heart was beating up a storm and he was having trouble breathing when he finished writing that, and if anyone asked he was going to blame the futzing smoke for that.

There was no reply for a long time. This time Clint _knew_ it was a long time, because after staring at his arm for a while, he dug out his new phone, installed it and took a picture of the writing on his arm to send to Nat and Kate. He didn’t send it though. Not yet. Instead, he found his errant hearing aids and set about making tea. He couldn’t remember how long it’d been since he’d last willingly drunk tea.

He sat on the couch staring at the tea with honey for a little bit, unsure what his most pressing reason for not drinking was: That is it was tea or that it was possibly poison. He was about to say ‘futz it’ and drink it anyway when he felt the tell-tale pressing of a pen.

The text, when it appeared, was hesitant and a little shaky, like the hand holding the pen wasn’t very sure about writing at all. 

> _My name is James Buchanan Barnes. My friends called me Bucky. You don’t really want me to come over._

It once again took Clint embarrassing long time to connect the dots. He almost wrote ‘Why wouldn’t I? I just said you could!’ on his arm. Almost. Then somewhere in the recesses of his brain two brain cells actually managed to rub together and he let out a long groan… that promptly turned into a coughing fit because why not.

The super-soldier-like jump. Being able to track phone numbers. The overwhelming amount of ‘assassin’ vibes he’d given off.

“Aw universe…”

He even managed to croak it out without coughing. Much.

Oh god, his soulmate was Bucky futzing Barnes. The Winter Soldier. He was so dead. Steve was going to kill him dead and Natasha was going to help and it wasn’t even his fault this time!

Oh god and Bucky had seen his stupid list, had tracked him down and brought Clint cold medicine and did he even know who Clint was? Would he leave if he knew who Clint was? Oh god of pizza, coffee and archers, if you exist please help!

No god turned up to help, but Lucky took that moment to stick his cold wet nose in Clint’s neck and whined.

Clint jumped, which set off another fit.

When he was done hacking his lungs out he sniffed and wiped at his watery eyes – from the cold, no other reason – and wound his arms around Lucky. “You’re a good dog Lucky, such a good dog…” he whispered into the fur. Lucky thumped his tail against the couch cushions and Clint couldn’t help it. He smiled. Lucky was the best dog.

It took him a little bit to find the pen back – it’d gotten stuck between the couch cushions at some point – but finally Clint managed to write back:

> **Nice to meet you. My name is Clinton Francis Barton. Clint to my friends. Some people call me Hawkeye. Thought you deserved to know. I really, really want you to come over actually. You don’t have to though, if you don’t want to after what you saw earlier. Or for other reasons. That’s fine too. I’d say we could talk in person but I can’t really talk right now. So yeah. Whatever you want.**

He managed to stop himself from rambling on only on account of running out of space he could actually reach.

When the answer came, it was written on his bicep. 

> _I- I think I do want to. I could bring you new pizza? You dropped the other one because of me._

That was it, Clint decided. Bucky was definitely his soulmate. No question.

> **Best soulmate! See you in a bit?**

~*~

Bucky stared at his flesh arm, covered in black sharpie, blue ballpoint and purple pen.

This was going to go wrong. So very wrong. He could put Clint in serious danger just by being there. Clint, who was also Hawkeye, an Avenger and Steve’s friend. There were so many reasons why this was a horrible idea.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment and then carefully picked up the pen with his metal hand.

> _Pepperoni okay? See you in an hour_

For the first time since 1945, he felt his lips pull into a smile. This was a horrible idea, but he had pizza to buy and a disastrous blond superhero to take care of. That much wasn’t new.

He hesitated a moment and then finished the sentence with a flourish.

> _Soulmate._

**Author's Note:**

> So that was it.
> 
> This was written today, in a blind panic, because there was work stress first, and then I got ill. So much of Clint (in terms of illness, clumsiness and just general flail-yness) is 100% me. He's a disaster and I love him.
> 
> This should've been between 500 and 1500 words but it wanted to be closer to 4000 so now it is? I tried, okay?
> 
> As ever, thanks for reading, I really hope you enjoyed it and let me know what you thought!


End file.
